


Outreach

by Cybra



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Gen, Possessed Scrooge AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 07:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14764842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cybra/pseuds/Cybra
Summary: (Set in tricia-morvill's Possessed Scrooge AU)  Magica might not have gotten the Dime, but she'd still gotten what she'd wanted:  She'd beaten and broken Scrooge.Now realizing just how alike-yet-different he and Scrooge were, Gladstone comes to a decision.





	Outreach

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Possessed!Scrooge AU on tricia-morvill's tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/383964) by Tricia-Morvill. 



> **SPOILER WARNING:** One major spoiler for “McMystery at McDuck McManor”.
> 
>  **A/N:** Yes, I’m jumping on the Possessed Scrooge AU bandwagon but it’s such a good idea that [tricia-morvill](https://tricia-morvill.tumblr.com/) came up with. Can you blame me? Anyway, everybody’s been doing stuff during Scrooge’s possession and I figured I’d write something for the aftermath. Likely non-canon with whatever tricia-morvill has planed.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Ducktales belongs to the Walt Disney Company. One quoted section of dialogue comes from one of tricia-morvill’s comics in her Possessed Scrooge AU.

McDuck Manor was overflowing with awkward silence.

Nobody knew what to say in the aftermath of Magica’s disturbingly well-executed attack on Scrooge.  (Though the effectiveness of her scheme should have been no surprise given she’d had several years to plan.)  While she’d failed to obtain Scrooge’s Number One Dime, too lost in the heady rush of _winning_ and _breaking_ her hated nemesis, she had succeeded in shining a blinding spotlight on just how broken their family was and how little trust there was between Scrooge and his blood relations.  She had failed to achieve her ultimate goal, but Magica had still gotten what she’d wanted:  She’d beaten Scrooge down, breaking his heart and using his own family as her mortar and pestle to grind the pieces into powder, ensuring he had no fight left in him to oppose her.

“I’m going to the Bin.”

Those were the first words uttered in the silence that had followed Magica’s defeat.  In that thick, awkward quiet, they were as loud and destructive as atomic bombs.

Donald’s beak opened and closed, seemingly unable to create any sort of sound in response.  He had his hands on his nephews, the triplets huddling together with their father figure on reflex.

So Gladstone took it upon himself to step forward, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder.  “C’mon, Uncle Scrooge.  It’s late.  And being possessed is probably pretty draining.  I mean, you were in rough shape there for a while.  It might be best to, y’know, sit down, eat something, get some sleep, and then in the morning…maybe…talk about it?”

“I think I’ve done enough talking, don’t you?” Scrooge asked, turning his head just enough to see Gladstone.  However, the brim of the top hat was low over his eyes, making it impossible to clearly read his expression.

“That wasn’t _you_ though,” Gladstone protested, tightening his grip.

He didn’t know why, but he had the impression that if he let Scrooge go now, there would be nothing but silence for another ten years, maybe more.  Much, much more.

Perhaps even…

_“Listen to me, Scroogey:  Maybe you care about them, but they don’t care about you.  You’re completely alone.  They don’t even know you that well.  They left because these are things they believe you would say.  That’s the impression they have on you.  All of them.  Think, Scroogey, what kind of family is that?”_

Scrooge had been fighting back, swearing vengeance against Magica up until that moment.  Then he’d simply crumpled, surrendering.  The entire trip to reach Donald, to try and get him to come back, that moment had played over and over in Gladstone’s mind because of his uncle’s face.  In that moment, he’d realized just how alike he and Scrooge really were:

_I’m a resource for others more than I’m a person._

_If I act like I don’t care, maybe I’ll finally be able not to anymore._

_Maybe with enough practice, I’ll finally just go numb._

How many times had such thoughts filtered through his head?  Their exact circumstances and methods might have been different, but Gladstone and Scrooge were fundamentally the same in keeping people at arms’ length lest they suffer the heartbreak when they were inevitably discarded.

But Magica’s words had also made Gladstone realize a sickeningly-horrible truth:  For all they were alike, Gladstone got the better end of the deal because he knew if he called for help, Donald would still come running.  Hadn’t the House of the Lucky Fortune proven that?  True, Donald had been looking to leave when it had appeared that Gladstone had called them without a real emergency, but he’d still come.  Family helped family.

But Donald hadn’t rushed to the rescue this time; he’d had to be convinced.  To be brutally honest, it wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened in regards to Scrooge, and Donald wasn't the only guilty party in turning his back on the old man.  After all, no one had reached out to their uncle following Della’s disappearance.  Scrooge had lost a niece, but the family pushed him out rather than allowing him to join in their grieving.  Not that anyone would’ve been able to blame them given they had lost a sister, a mother, a granddaughter, a niece, and a cousin.  And they’d all justified it to themselves, Gladstone himself included:

_“That selfish old man only cares about the bottom line.  He’s probably more upset at how much this cost him than losing Della.”_

_“Only a monster would’ve asked Della to go on some adventure so soon after laying her eggs.  Now he’s taken her from them for good!”_

_“He hasn’t even tried to call anyone.  His heart must be made of stone.”_

If their positions had been reversed, would Gladstone have tried reaching out first when it was so obvious that he’d be met with rejection?  Or would he have done what Scrooge had done, what he himself _always_ did when faced with such a response:

_Hate me all you want.  I don’t need you.  See how much I don’t care?  I’m better off without you!_

But every time he’d thought that, had acted like that had been a lie.  In the quiet moments when no one was around, he’d be lucky enough that the rain would start falling and he could stand outside and hide his tears amongst the raindrops.  Yet simultaneously he would long for someone to appear out of nowhere to give him some of the love and comfort he desperately needed in those moments.  Sometimes they even did.

Gladstone could still call on family since they still believed in him being a good person even when he drove them up the wall.  He was still part of the family.

Scrooge…was not.  Or at least he didn’t feel as if he was, so he kept them as far away from him as he could to lick his festering wounds and avoid what he saw as the inevitable pain of reaching out and having his hand slapped away.

All this whirled through Gladstone’s head as Scrooge snorted in response to his statement, face still obscured by that hat.  “Doesn’t matter in the end, does it?”  He raised a hand to the one Gladstone still had firmly on his shoulder, squeezing his nephew’s wrist just enough to make him release out of reflex.  “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be going.”  Scrooge stepped away from the gander and towards the front door.  “Launchpad, bring the car around.”

“No can do, Mr. McDee,” the goofy pilot said in a somewhat jarring moment of utter seriousness.

Scrooge kept his head low, his face obscured, as he asked, “Then what am I paying you for?”

However there was no fire, no venom in those words.  Scrooge’s tone was as cold and neutral as a glacier.

As much as Gladstone hated the pun, it gave him goosebumps to hear it.

“Sorry, but I’m in the middle of work on the transmission, so I can’t drive you.”

Gladstone strongly suspected that was a lie.  Whether Scrooge also did or not he couldn’t tell given his uncle simply said, “Then I’ll walk.  Could use the exercise.”

“Uncle Scrooge,” Donald choked out. “You—”

“I’m done talking, Donald,” Scrooge stated without looking at him. “I’ll be at the Bin.”

Magica had used them to grind Scrooge’s heart into powder, and now Scrooge was drawing clear lines in the dust, lines his kin were not supposed to cross.  Even in losing, the witch had won.

Beakley and Duckworth moved to block Scrooge’s path, but the old man walked right through the latter with only a slight shiver.

“Mr. McDuck, we have to insist that you get some rest.  Things will be clearer in the morning,” Duckworth pleaded as Beakley blocked the door.

“I wish to leave this house and go to my Bin.  Now get out of my way.”

“I can’t in good conscience, sir,” Beakley responded.

“I am leaving this house whether you want me to or not.  Now you can either allow me the dignity of leaving through the front door or I’ll be going out through a window.  Either way I’m going to the Bin.”

Both held their grounds until Beakley finally stepped to one side, allowing Scrooge to exit with her eyes closed in resignation.  She couldn’t fight him and ensure her granddaughter wouldn’t suffer the consequences of her insubordination.  From what Gladstone had heard, Scrooge gave her plenty of leeway, but apparently there were lines she didn’t feel as if she could cross.  These were lines that Duckworth also couldn’t seem to bring himself to cross though the ghost’s expression showed clear distress and displeasure that their hands were tied by their loyalty to the master of the house and his wishes.

The old man left the mansion and made his way out of sight, following the driveway down Killmotor Hill.

“What do we do now, Uncle Donald?” Huey asked meekly. “How are we supposed to fix this?”

“…I don’t know,” Donald answered quietly.

Gladstone balled his hands into fists and ran out of the house before anyone could say anything else.  There was nothing he could say to fix things, probably nothing he could do either, but he knew _one_ thing that Scrooge likely needed right now more than anything.

After all, they were the same.  And it was about time that somebody reached out to Scrooge despite all his flaws and all the things they blamed him for like so many had reached out to Gladstone.

For an old man, Scrooge moved rather quickly.  The ground-eating pace he set made it so that Gladstone couldn’t catch up with him until they were halfway down the insanely-long driveway.

Gladstone stopped a few feet behind the old man, panting.

Scrooge also came to a stop but didn’t look at him.  “Gladstone, I don’t want to talk.”

“I know, but I do,” the gander said. “And what I want to say is…”  He took a deep breath.  “…I wish it would rain.”

Silence reigned between them for several minutes.

Then came a new sound:

_Plip.  Plip.  Plip plip plip plip…_

The puffy clouds above Duckburg which had been white only moments before had significantly darkened and clustered together before releasing the water they contained.

Scrooge tilted his head back, looking up towards the sky.  Standing behind him as he was, Gladstone couldn’t see the man’s expression, but more importantly Scrooge didn’t resume walking towards the hollow comfort of an ocean of coins, a bittersweet sea of memories enshrined in metal.

Gladstone cautiously approached as the rain continued to fall around them, soaking both of them through.  Waterfalls of raindrops poured down the brim of Scrooge’s top hat.  The gander spied a few raindrops that originated from beneath the brim sliding down his uncle’s cheeks.  He was within arms’ reach when he heard Scrooge’s hitched breathing.

Finally, Gladstone wrapped his arms around his uncle, pressing his chest to the old man’s back.

Thunder rumbled overhead, the sound swallowing the wail Gladstone could feel Scrooge release.  The gander said nothing else, merely held on tightly as more thunder cracked to cover Scrooge’s sobs and screams.

* * *

 

_“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.” – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_


End file.
